‘I cannot say. Have we?’
‘In the absence of confusion, we find easy synchronicity with time’s natural passing, with its fixed pace. Alas, Skillen, confusion walks with us, stubborn as a shadow.’ He paused, and then waved at the city before them. ‘An insect sets out, there to the west, and begins its march to the easternmost end of the scape. In its modest scale, the journey is long, arduous even. Yet you, Skillen, with your wings spread, could paint your shadow upon the gap in mere moments. Time, it seems, possesses a varying scale.’
‘No. It is only perception that varies.’
‘We have little else.’
‘The K’Chain Che’Malle, K’rul, are makers of instruments and machines. They contrive clocks that divide time itself. Thus, it is fixed in place. The procession of the gears never varies.’
‘But would a citizen of the city below sense the same intervals as those K’Chain Che’Malle?’
‘Perception suggests not … and yet, as I said, the gears are precise and the intervals consistent.’
‘And so, once again,’ mused K’rul, ‘we must look upon scale, and deem it relevant.’
‘It may be,’ said Skillen Droe as he unfolded his wings, ‘that in creating their clocks, the K’Chain Che’Malle have imposed an order, and a focal point, upon a force of nature that heretofore knew no rules. And by this creation, we are now trapped.’
The notion disturbed K’rul, and he had no response to make.
‘I see a sea beyond the valley.’
‘A sea! Now I begin to suspect who imposed this world upon us!’
‘Too bad, since he too will not welcome me.’
Skillen Droe collected up K’rul with one long-fingered, taloned hand, and unceremoniously took to the air, wings snapping. As they rose higher, K’rul could see that the land they had walked upon was in fact an island, although there had been no sense of that when striding through the mists earlier in the day. The realm of detritus and dust, of abandoned thrones and monuments, had dwindled into the fog that seemed to mark the boundaries between worlds.
Such distinctions seemed arbitrary, and the uncanny proliferation of realms, to which the Azathanai had access, had led K’rul into the belief that, by some strange synthesis of creation, he and his kind were the makers of such places. It was a difficult notion to shake, particularly when it seemed – as it did now – that two wills could war with creation itself.
This island was a manifestation of Mael’s whimsy, and Mael was in the habit of mocking the pretences of solid ground that rose like raised welts upon the perfect surface of his seas and oceans. He was also in the habit of peopling such lands with irritatingly poignant absurdities.
Insects! A city of spires and statues, bridges and canals! You deem this humour, Mael?
They swept over the city in the valley, shadow trailing, and a short time later reached the sandy strip of the shoreline. Out of courtesy, Skillen brought them down upon the white beach. The air here was sharp but warm.
His feet settling into the sand, K’rul straightened his clothing. ‘Your talons have put holes in my robe,’ he said.
Mael appeared, walking out from the lazy waves that whispered over the strand. Momentarily tangled in seaweed, the Azathanai paused to pluck it free, and then continued on. The man was naked, pale, his eyes a bland, washed-out blue. His black hair was long, hanging limp over his broad shoulders. Reaching the shore, he pointed a finger at Skillen Droe. ‘You owe me an apology.’
‘My life is measured in debts,’ Skillen Droe replied.
‘I see an easy solution to that,’ Mael said, and then his gaze shifted to K’rul. ‘At the very least, you should have elected to bleed out into the sea. Instead, we are witness to a crude proliferation of untempered power. Did no one advise you against such an act?’
‘I chose not to table the decision for discussion, Mael,’ K’rul replied. ‘Not that any of us ever discuss anything before doing whatever it is we end up doing. In any case,’ he added, ‘we are not all insects.’
Mael smiled. ‘An exercise,’ he said, ‘that amuses me.’
‘To what end?’
The Azathanai who ruled the seas simply shrugged. ‘What do you two want? Where are you going?’
‘To the Vitr,’ K’rul replied.
Mael grunted and looked away. ‘Ardata. And the Queen of Dreams.’
‘Well, to be more precise, the bay known as Starvald Demelain, where, it seems, the Gate once more resides.’
‘Open? Unguarded?’